


What Lies In The Stars?

by california_112



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Gen, No Dialogue, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/california_112/pseuds/california_112
Summary: Head twisted to one side, he stared up at the stars through a hole in the canvas, trying to ignore the remnants of rain from earlier dripping through onto his battered uniform. He would have preferred it to drip onto something else, but the single 'blanket' provided seemed more useful as a kind of mattress, and with the tent overcrowded with sleeping bodies, he was lucky he could move at all. At least it wasn't cold, if you imagined it was hot.-or-Just after arriving in camp, Newkirk reflects on how he got there. Partly inspired by Signy1's amazing fic 'Freedom, Hanging By a Thread' (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938624).ABSOLUTELY 0% SPOILERS FOR ANYTHING
Comments: 14
Kudos: 15





	What Lies In The Stars?

It was Corporal Peter Newkirk's first night in what would, in the future, be called Stalag Thirteen.

At the moment, it couldn't really be called anything, except a mess of wet canvas and wooden poles left over from the last war, and a small collection of sleeping men. Well, most were asleep- all except Newkirk.

Head twisted to one side, he stared up at the stars through a hole in the canvas, trying to ignore the remnants of rain from earlier dripping through onto his battered uniform. He would have preferred it to drip onto something else, but the single 'blanket' provided seemed more useful as a kind of mattress, and with the tent overcrowded with sleeping bodies, he was lucky he could move at all. At least it wasn't cold, if you imagined it was hot.

He knew there were meant to be shapes in the stars, but he'd never actually seen any. Watching them twinkle was still relaxing though- contemplative. The sky was the only thing that had kept him sane throughout the trial of becoming a prisoner of war. First, shot down out of it, leaving a trail of fire like a grizzly comet; parachuting down through it, the most scared he'd ever been in his life; then stumbling around under it for a few days before being quite violently picked up.

Locked in an underground Gestapo cell was the first time he had realised fully how much being able to see the sky had meant to him. But, although the tiny, stuffy, windowless room was hell, it didn't make him feel any more like talking, and he was released into the prison camp system pretty quickly.

When he had first been bought back upstairs, he hadn't been able to keep his eyes away from the puffs of white scattered in a deep blue- or so it seemed. He stage managed his emotions so well that, when he found himself bundled into a truck, the guards left the back open. "Don't worry about this one," a soldier joked, "all he wants to look at is the clouds."

Seeing and mentally documenting the entire journey from Gestapo Headquarters Frankfurt to Stalag Thirteen was, he now realised, a pointless advantage. As he had found out on his arrival earlier that day, the only thing this place wasn't short on was guards- and any escape attempt under the sadistic Kommandant Muller would be suicidal. But that wasn't to say he was ruling it out.

On that bumpy journey, staring up at the sky, Newkirk had realised something. More than ever, he wanted to get back up there- not necessarily to fight, but to stop the Krauts from having the satisfaction of keeping him captive.

He would dig. He would scam, he would steal, he would bear all the days in the cooler, and he would try again. He would cut the wire, he would steal a guards uniform and- maybe not that one. He could try going out in trucks, though, or with work parties if they came in. He would try anything- and everything.

But for now, right now, before the morning dulled them, stars filled the unpolluted sky, more than they ever had in London. Not knowing the proper shapes, he decided to make up his own- those ones looked like a spanner. If you threaded those six together- no, those seven- they looked a bit like a chair. If you threaded those five, they looked like a 'w', whatever that meant. If you threaded them all together, they looked like barbed wire, keeping him captive from above.

He shifted his head back onto the 'mattress', deciding to settle down and sleep. Dawn would come soon enough, and then it would be tomorrow, and then he would start. His mind overcrowded with thoughts, Newkirk closed his eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> hmmm
> 
> Not overly happy with this, but thought I'd share anyway. You may be able to work out which character I identify most with through the ones involved in my fics... ;')


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